A Man Walks Down the Street
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: John thinks as he walks down the street, would anyone care if I dropped dead right here?


**Based on Paul Simon's 'You Can Call Me Al'.**

**Warnings for a little blood and violence, mild swearing. No specific pairing but please feel free to wear your slash goggles. I know I do.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the song.**

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><p>John liked to think as he walked down the streets.<p>

The thoughts were never very pleasant, but they were always engaging. Which he supposed was better than 'what am I having for dinner?' (soggy salad and an omelette scraped together from the remains of the contents of his fridge) or 'where should I go tonight?' (nowhere because he couldn't manoeuvre well in crowded places with his damn leg).

No, his thoughts were more along the lines of 'why is life so bloody difficult?' and 'would anyone care if I dropped dead right here?'

He lingered on the second one for a little while, and came to the conclusion no-one would, not right away. Passers-by might be alarmed, for a little while, at someone just keeling over in the middle of the road, but they'd get over it. He'd be a tale to tell to wives and children, some topic of conversation at a boring meeting between friends. "Hey, you know what happened today, this guy just dropped dead right in the middle of the road!"

Harry might care. Eventually. When she was sober, which would take weeks. She'd probably miss the funeral, and then regret it for the rest of her life, drinking more and more until she died too and then he could blame himself for it.

He didn't feel right, on edge constantly in the comparatively placid setting (comparative to Afghanistan that was). Sometimes he felt like he was growing fatter with every second, turning into one of the men who'd never done a spot of exercise in their life and ate and ate until they were rolling in their own beerbellys. The thought made him shudder; that was why he walked every day, for as long as he could manage without actually collapsing, despite the exquisite agony in his leg. It wasn't real, he knew, but that didn't make it any better.

No-one paid him any attention, but he didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing. He had no-one to look to; he always liked to take orders, knowing exactly what he had to do, when and where, without the responsibility of making the decision himself. Of course, it didn't mean he'd always follow the orders.

It was getting dark, but he didn't want to go home and let the nightmares haunt him.

A dog came and sniffed at his foot, but he manoeuvred round it, irritated by the panting noise it made. There were already sounds, the wrong ones, sounds of people talking and moving and traffic, and he hated it. He liked the silence of the desert, where people talked only when they had to. He hated the bustle of London, but he couldn't have stayed away, not if he tried, because he loved it too.

'Why don't I have a wife and a couple of kids yet?' (because he hadn't wanted any before the war and now no-one was going to look twice at him). He felt like a foreigner, new and lonely, surrounded, anxious.

It was because he was more nervous than usual in the dying light that he spotted it. A man walking past an alley, long black coat and curls, suddenly jerked backwards. He could have been slipping; he could have remembered he needed to be somewhere and changed direction suddenly.

But John was a soldier and he knew a look of shock and surprise when he saw one. If he'd been normal he wouldn't have noticed it in the first place, and even if he had he would have walked on or called the police. Maybe.

But he was John Watson, ex-army doctor and he felt frustrated and cross and he decided that if he could have a fight he might as well. If he died protecting a random bloke then there were worse ways to go. Maybe he wouldn't feel so isolated, maybe people wouldn't laugh at him for being so short.

It's strange what pops into your head sometimes.

He ducked into the alley and moved as fast as the stick would allow, and there he was, the strange man, being held by two others, one on each arm. Both were burly, big, one pale with a tattoo of a fish on his arm, one black with long hair. A fourth man stood facing the other three, and as John watched he landed a heavy punch to the curly-haired man's stomach.

The man let out a whoosh of air, and spat out blood, but then he looked up defiantly again. One of his eyes was already swelling, and his lips were bleeding.

"You think this is going to intimidate me?" Sarcastic, witty, stupid. "My statement's already been given. Nothing will save your brother." He liked the man's voice, soft and low, smooth. It gave him a sense of authority, no matter what he was saying.

He took a few more hits with minimum groaning – John was impressed. He'd seen men complain from less.

"How's the divorce going?" the man snarled as soon as the hitting stopped. "Judging by your handkerchief not so well. Who was she sleeping with? Your brother?" His eyes widened. "No…surely not your sister…oh that's pricele-oof."

It was here John decided to intervene; as interesting as the man was he was going to be less so when he had severe internal bleeding.

"Hey!" he called, acting the innocent bystander. "What's going on down here?"

The ringleader whirled to face him, and saw a disabled man leaning on a cane. He was already incensed; his eyes flashed and suddenly he came at John like a wild horse.

John was ready for him, despite his leg and his shoulder, and he used the cane to his advantage, tripping the thug with minimal effort and almost breaking his kneecaps in the process.

He was practically disappointed when the men decided to cut their losses and run. He'd been looking forward to something more drawn-out; still you couldn't have everything in life.

The man with the coat had staggered to a wall and slid down it, panting, as soon as he'd been released. One arm was curled across his chest, the other loose by his side. John retrieved his cane and moved over, and the pain was dulled enough for him not to have to put his full weight on the stick.

"Thanks," the man wheezed. "What you did…that was…good…"

"You're welcome." John extended a hand. "What did they want you for?"

"Long story. It involves three herds of cattle and a stone angel. Also a hedgehog."

"Sounds fascinating." The man smiled, twitching up one corner of his mouth, and used John's hand to lever himself upright.

"Who are you then?"

John grinned. "Your bodyguard to judge by the way they were laying into you. You?"

The man shrugged. "Guess I'm your long lost friend. You look like you need one."

John frowned. "What?"

"Your tan-lines and haircut, plus the way you fight, say ex-soldier. Also, you came down an alley looking for trouble. You can't have many friends."

"Oh, thanks."

"No problem." The man shook curls out of his eyes. "I'm Sherlock. Can I know your name?"

John barely noticed he wasn't leaning on the cane any more, still with his fingers touching Sherlock's. His name wasn't something he gave away often, keeping it cradled as close to him as something like his fondness for old crime dramas, but this man was…brilliant. He was worth staying with. Worth telling.

"Call me John."

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, please review!<strong>


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